
Class J 

Book.. 

GojjynglitTi"^ 

COHfRrCHT DEPOSm 



/ 




Copyrighted 1919, by 
SERGT. D. G. ROWSE 



First Printed: December, 1918 



m 30 I9i9 



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-J^-oyr^jA: ±cr Z. 




NEW YORK 

FRANK K. KANE COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 






^^^ 



MILITARY COURTESIES 

The authors salute the reader (in two 
counts) and present their compliments. 

In case he should wish to have it, the in- 
formation is submitted that one of us is now 
located at Camp Custer, Mich. ; the other at 
Fort Hancock, New Jersey, w^here he is night 
editor (i. e., when oflF duty) of the post 
magazine. 

We met through being in the same Army. 
Otherwise we might never have got 

acquainted! 

(Corporal) M. T. KOPSCO, 
(S..geHnt) D. G. ROWSE. 



• CI.A512229 



To The Boys 



and their friends 
and relatives 

The General Public 



A is the ARMY at that stage of your 
young life when you were on w^hat the 
Army calls "the outside." You were 
still wearing suspenders, and going around 
'looking at things over the top of a linen 
collar. If you had been told that Czyerznski 
only ducked a spell in the jug by hand- 
shciking with the top-kick due to going 
AWOL, and that they handed him six K. P.'s 
.anyw^ay, and a week on old guard, you 
couldn't have passed on the merits of the 
case. In fact, when those posters about see- 
ing the w^orld got you, you were so green as 
to be practically invisible on the parade 
ground. Hitherto your only acquaintance 
with Reveille was wondering how^ to spell 
it; and until they made you stand it occa- 
sionally, Retreat meant the same to you as 
it does to von Hindenburg. 

But by the time your new shoes, russet 
(as they are described on your clothing slip) 
were through squeaking, you had learned 
quite a bit, and some of it is shown in the 
following pages. 



[9] 



B stands for Bunk Fatigue — the only kind 
of fatigue that is really popular. No one 
enthuses over the other kinds, but Bunk 
Fatigue is always tackled with a rush. 
Everything tends to fall flat in a barrack, you 
might say, including the occupants. After 
all, this is a very horizontal war. 

Bunk Fatigue is not to be confused with 
official unconsciousness, following "lights 
out." It is not recognized in Army Regula- 
tions or Standing Orders. Particularly 
Standing Orders. It simply fits into odd 
chinks in the day that the schedule-makers 
have overlooked. It is grabbed off. That 
makes it all the more desirable. 

Severe sunburn, fore and aft, is the only 
thing that will keep the fellows walking 
around in leisure moments. 



[13] 



Cis the art of spending 24 hours doping 
out the attire in which you will leave 
the camp on the pass you have coming. 
Yes, Camouflage is the word. There is de- 
picted on the preceding page an authentic 
specimen of the species "w^eek-end officer," 
w^ho while on duty, is always an emphatic 
private, but whose barrack bag always con- 
tains a garrison cap, linen collar, spiral or 
leather puttees, and sundry other aids to a 
36-hour commission. The boys don't mind 
him, and he figures that folks on the outside 
are not on. 

Characteristics: Intimate knowledge of 
Army Regulations on questions of uniform, 
and a marked dislike of Military Police. 
Habitat: Some Gay White Way, either in 
New York or wherever he happens to be. 



[17] 



Dis the Army Doctor, who is a skeptic 
by habit. After one treatment any 
desire you may have had to put your 
name in at sick call is lessened. The Army 
way is a kind of pooling of the ailments of 
the bunch that show up at sick call, and the 
Medical Corps orderly sees to it that you get 
the other fellow's throat gargle and he gets 
your O. D. pills. But you find yourself feel- 
ing better even before the medical looey has 
asked you what "your trouble is" and he 
speeds up your convalescence by marking 
you "Duty" on the sick report. "Duty" 
amounts to the Scotch verdict of "Not 
Proven." 

Missouri has produced more Army doc- 
tors than any state in the Union. 



[21] 



Eis an Enemy you can't beat. Look at 
his hands, anyway! His insignia is an 
idle pick or a shovel that isn't doing 
anything, and he comes at you in as many 
ways as there are Army Regulations. Old 
von Fatigue is liable to infilade you before 
the ink is dry on your enlistment papers, and 
even before you have draw^n your first set 
of woolen O. D.'s, and he keeps after you 
right along. His specialty is breaking up 
any detachments that are supported only by 
their bunks. 

Though disguised in a suit of blue denims, 
he is none other than our old friend of 
civilian days. Hard Work, who has simply 
got himself a nom de guerre. The worst of 
it is (while on a painful topic) , that the mys- 
terious George, who did the things you 
didn't do yourself on the outside doesn't 
seem to have enlisted in this man's army. 
The scared individuals in the picture think 
they are ducking Fatigue, and that some one 
else will "front and center" for the road 
manicuring, shoveling, mopping and hefting 
required to keep the place in which we like 
to call "good police." But leave it to von 
Fatigue and the top-cutter. 



[25] 



Fis for First Call, to wit, that moment 
when the cheery notes of the bugle, wel- 
coming the new day, acquaint you of 
duty to be done, and you spring lightly from 
your bunk, without delay or repining, as in- 
dicated in the illustration. Or, if you like. 
First Call is the state of affairs preceding as- 
sembly, where you are assisted in answering 
*'Yo!" to your name by the fortunate know- 
ledge of where it comes on the company 
roster. Anyway, you manage to express 
yourself as being present. 

Sherman undoubtedly stood Reveille. 



|29] 



Gis for Generals, with whom we are in- 
timately acquainted — through the Sun- 
day supplements. Of course there 
must be generals in the Army, but you never 
see them around. A man we know says his 
former C. O. claimed he once was balled out 
by General Pershing, and that the Gen. 
finally said that he would let the matter drop 
but for the C. O. not to let it happen again 
and all like that, just like a regular guy. 
This man we know got it from a guy w^ho 
was there at the time and saw^ the General 
and everything. But you can't believe all 
you hear. This man has the reputation of 
being a terrible liar, anyway. It was prob- 
ably he who started the yarn about the Gen- 
eral who made the 2nd looey return the 1 00 
salutes (or whatever the number was) that 
he was making the private do for not having 
seen him or something. 

That is the advantage of Generals. You 
can pull something like the above about one, 
and get away with it. With Colonels it's 
different. You do sometimes meet a 
Colonel. 



[33] 



His for Hikes. Announcement that they 
are going to have one is the only thing 
that can make the whole company will- 
ing to go on the sick report. They figure 
that if they aren't on it the day before the 
hike, they will be the day after. All they are 
trying to do is save time. And there is 
always the chance of the Medical looey 
marking you "Quarters" by mistake. 

1. Newton could have got on without the 
apple, if he had been allowed to go on just 
one hike. But he would have had to explain 
in his definition that the Army pack is an 
exception to the general rule about falling 
objects. Its weight increases out of all pro- 
portion after about the fifth mile, whatever 
Doc Newton claims, especially w^hen accom- 
panied by a regulation Springfield and Red 
Cross SOX. It is said that the U. S. Army 
carries an outfit, in full marching order, that 
is 7 lbs. lighter than the Germans'. If that 
is really the case, their appeals to Gott are 
justified. 



[37] 



I is Inspection. Not merely foot inspection, 
or mouth inspection, or T. B. inspection, 
or any of the other minor inspections, but 
the regular Saturday morning inspection, 
when a half-burnt Mecca under your bunk, 
in conjunction with the C. O. having had a 
bad night, will put you out of luck for a 
pass, or worse. About one w^eek with noth- 
ing else to do would be a fair time in which 
to collect all the things that you are taking 
care of for the Government, and getting 
them in good shape. But they mostly rely 
on two hours or so on Friday evenings, when 
pieces of rag you were sure w^ere in your 
barrack bag ain't, and oil and shoe polish 
are in demand. (Rust in a rifle barrel is a 
thing company commanders get very tem- 
peramental over.) 

There is this to be said in favor of inspec- 
tion, though. Guys who otherwise only re- 
gard the matter tentatively have to take a 
shave, and the appearance of the facial land- 
scape is much improved thereby. 



[41] 



J is the Jug, otherwise known as the can, 
the pen or the mill. We don't claim in- 
side knowledge of this particular subject, 
in spite of the attitude conveyed in conversa- 
tions of this sort: 

Party of the 1st Part (modestly) : "Yeh, I did 
three months at Camp " 

Party of the 2nd Part (deferentially) : "Uh, 
huh." 

P. of the 1st P.: "Yeh. And believe me, bo, 
they didn't rub it into yuh. Fierce." 

P. of the 2nd P.: "Yeh? Well, I was in for 
12 months at Leavenworth — Uh? — Yeh. I took 
the blame for what another guy done, and " 

The non-com who oversees the detailing 
of the occupants of the Jug on their daily 
fatigues runs W. Hohenzollern close in the 
world's popularity contest. But on the 
w^hole visitors in the Jug take things with 
a great deal of philosophy. 



145] 



Kis for K. P. — the private's idea of 
non-essential industry, and a fine 
chance to get advance knowledge of 
Hades, as the Harvard professor with whom 
we first peeled onions expressed it. Among 
other things you try to solve as a Kitchen 
Cop is how^ a guy can be as mean as a Mess 
Sergeant without waking up in the night 
and being frightened at himself. It isn't 
easy, either, to figure what becomes of the 
spuds you peel. Some get eaten, of course, 
but what do they do with the others? 

The Kitchen Police have had a lot of pub- 
licity in this war. And they deserve it. 
Even the most aristocratic job the kitchen 
has to offer — that is, "pearl diving," or the 
operation of recovering the crockery from 
the bottom of 2 feet of "water" in the sink — 
is no fun if you do it 24Mi hours a day, to 
which the work schedule in the kitchen has 
lately been reduced by a special order of the 
War Department. Publicity is all right, but 
nobody likes it via the bulletin board where 
they post the K. P. roster. 



[49] 



Lis for Cooties. We leave you to figure 
how the connection is estabhshed. They, 
or it, are not, or is not, in themselves, or 
itself, a court martial offense. Regulations 
simply state that strict personal cleanliness 
is "enjoined," and the fact is that cooties 
don't flourish until you get nearer the front 
line, where other things matter a w^hole lot 
more. Of course, some New^ York cootie 
may visit the war and get away with it, or 
parts of it, but public opinion is so strong 
in the Army on the subject of providing 
free transportation of this sort that the 
cootie's chance is slim. 

For the scientifically inclined, it is noted 
that, according to the location of the 
phenomenon it is described either as "leap- 
ing dandruff" or "shirt rats." 



[53] 



M 



is the Mess Hall, where, as the poet 
has said 



"... .the pinch primeval rules 
And closest friendship cools." 



In other words, "the Arm with the Reach 
Wins." In the Mess Hall almost everything 
goes, and especially the chow. Chow inspires 
the everlasting hope of every man in the 
Army, but often furnishes merely another 
excuse for cussing the Kaiser. When they 
get their husbands back from the Govern- 
ment wives will have no reason to worry as 
far as meals are concerned. All they w^ill 
have to do is remember to spill coffee over 
their ex-soldiers occasionally, and say "Out 
o' luck, kid!" if they ask for more of some- 
thing. That, and keeping the victrola play- 
ing during family mess, will help the re- 
turned hubbies feel at home. 



[57] 



Nis the newly made non-com. This pic- 
ture has been carefully drawn to scale, 
and represents a corporal who has just 
returned from the company tailor after get- 
ting his chevron fixed, in proportion to some 
officers who only scraped through West 
Point. As you can see, he crowds the land- 
scape quite a bit. He is considerably It. 

Whoosis's famous dictum about non-com- 
missioned officers being the back-bone of 
any army strikes you as reasonable at this 
stage of your military career. ( Whatzat has 
an equally famous one about commissioned 
officers being the same thing, and Whatzis- 
name has one about the private being the 
back-bone of the army, but what do Whatzat 
and Whatzisname amount to anyw^ay?) 

Bursting through the undergrowth into a 
corporalcy not only lets you out of K. P. but 
also helps you shake loose an extra three 
bucks from the Disbursing Officer, and com- 
petition among the would-be graduates is as 
keen as a bayonet. Hard work will help you 
along in that direction, but the fast service 
route to the stripes is always thought to be 
a congenial intimacy with the topper. 

Having worn them elsewhere is no quali- 
fication. 



[61] 



Ois "Over There," where everyone lives, 
in imagination, from the moment the 
Medical Corps officer at the recruiting 
station admits, against his evident v/ishes, 
that you are O, K. But everybody has not 
the same chance of getting there. George 
M. Cohan went and signed the Kaiser's final 
papers w^hen he wrote "Over There," and 
all that w^orries the boys on this side is 
whether they would have the chance to give 
George a proper backing. 

Much perfectly good thought is devoted, 
in the meantime, to figuring what you will 
do on the other side, if, as, and w^hen, and 
whenever (as our company lawyer put it) 
you get there. Of course the w^ar is bound 
to claim some of your time, but that can't 
be the reason for the big rush on the French 
classes at the Y. War is the same in any 
language, and all 1 2-inch shells have ap- 
proximately the same accent. But there are 
other things "Over There" beside the war. 
Maize oo-ee, bo! Maize oo-ee! 



[65] 



Pis Pay Day, which in France must be a 
terrific strain on the boys. It is bad 
enough on this side straightening up 
your financial affairs at the end of the month. 
There are so many things to remember, 
such as, 

2 beans to Red; 

75c. to the tailor, for converting your 
extra blouse, which was a trifle large, 
into a mackinaw; 
Collect 5 from Benneh Goldberg, who 
is active in games of chance, and usu- 
ally works on borrowed capital ; 
Find the guy in the 8th Company who 
had the two berries coming from 
Buck-Eye. Buck-Eye desires that 
you fix it for him, and he w^ill see you 
right. 
Figuring whether the Q. M. has made the 
right deductions for your canteen checks, 
family allotment, Liberty Loan subscription, 
pool, barber and the other company fund 
charges, and for the dish you broke the last 
time you were on K. P. (in addition to tak- 
ing care of the more personal items) is quite 
some job right here. It must be fierce to 
owe money in another language. 



[69] 



Qis for Quarantine — an opportunity the 
Army gives you from time to time to 
consider in detail whether your life has 
been all that it might have been, and whether 
the war will be over soon, and whether they 
will have ham again for dinner, and whether 
Gladys is still crazy about you (no mail hav- 
ing been delivered), and — well, everything 
there is to consider. You can take your time 
about it, too. Time is no object, because 
there is nothing to do. People are reduced 
to talking about the war. There are no 
passes, no movies, no shows at the Y, owing 
to the risk of your catching something, no 
bunk fatigue, because you have to put your 
bedding outside to air and leave it there all 
day, no drills, no newspapers, no anything. 
In fact, nothing. When you are not sus- 
pecting your bunkies of having the flu, you 
are wondering whether any of your relatives 
are having it. Finally you start hoping they 
are and that one will get it bad enough to 
send a wire for you to "come at once." Such 
is the effect of Quarantine! 

The only forms of recreation in quaran- 
tine are saving money and growing a 
mustache. 



[73] 



MM 





• -"^^<\.j'5^^'^^4'''''*^ 



Ris for Rookie, who will positively 
search, if you ask him, for the key to 
the parade ground, or ten feet of skirm- 
ish line. He believes that pup-tents must 
have something to do with the Dogs of War, 
and he spends the time he has between K. P., 
fatigues and room orderly w^ondering who 
wakes the guy that blows reveille. He finds 
a Springfield is no toothpick, though he often 
jabs the fellow in the same file w^ith it. "On 
right into line" and "Right front into line" 
are as one in his dismal existence. He w^on- 
ders w^hat they will stick him for the "blouse 
and breeches, C. O. D." he is told to get from 
the Supply Sergeant, and somehow is always 
the man for w^hom they had no clothes that 
would fit. His buttons are never all there, 
and if they are there they are never all but- 
toned. He goes around looking like a suc- 
cessful strategic retreat. People pick on him. 
Sergeants like him w^ith the same strong 
affection anyone has for a month's restric- 
tion. 

But there is this much about the Rookie: 
You w^ere one once. 



[77] 



Sis for Slacker — the (we hope) fictitious 
character who nevertheless is liable to 
invade your imagination after cold hot 
cakes, without butter, some morning w^hen 
you are quarantined and the mail hasn't 
shown up for some days. 

But for the most parts goats are loosed 
not so much by those on the outside as by 
the Army slackers, such as the Mess Hall 
Slacker, who never holds up an empty dish 
for the K. P. to fill unless you get the goods 
on him. This bird has another plan that is 
even worse. He can gauge the chow^ that 
will be left in the dish after he takes his so 
exactly that the amount is not a regular por- 
tion, but is just too much to kick about, and 
he has you spending the rest of the meal on 
a flat w^heel, so to specik, holding up the dish 
and waiting in vain for the kitchen constable. 
He may not be much at target practice, this 
guy, but he has some eye in the mess hall, 
all right. He is liked like sand in the soup. 
Next in the hearts of his victims is the guy 
who won't take a shave unless he is going 
on pass, who, in turn, is rivalled by the mean 
person w^ho refuses to buy the camp maga- 
zine because he isn't mentioned (or is men- 
tioned!) inside of it. But the guy that has 
them all skinned admits that he never writes 
home to his folks unless they send him the 
postage, 

[81] 



Tis for the Target, an apparatus that is 
approximately like a gallows in appear- 
ance but which also reminds you of the 
tackling dummy with which a football team 
learns to take em off by the ankles. A 
British sergeant usually goes with it, and 
beginners gather from his remarks that the 
German warrior is an undesirable person. 

Bayonet practise lacked something before 
the Yanks got hold of it. The minute they 
were introduced to it, it was realized that 
there is no reason why it should be a gloomy 
affair. If you are going to get a guy between 
the 5 th and 6th ribs you might as well keep 
his mind pleasantly occupied and have 
everything as cheerful as possible. So the 
charge with fixed bayonets has been vocal- 
ized. The best bayonet fighters now^ work 
in the key of "C." And many a guy who 
was a bear for yelling on the college campus 
finds himself out-yodelled by some meek in- 
dividual w^ho couldn't even w^hisper in civil 
life, if his wife was around. 



[85] 



Uis the Uniform that originates in the 
Q. M. Clothing Room, which you enter 
with ideas about being a military Beau 
Brummel and leave feeling cis though you 
had been to Moe Levy's. "The Army is the 
Army" you tell yourself, "and I can't expect 
to be quite so particular as I am with my 
own tailor," and finally you emerge with the 
only one they have left of that particular 
garment. And you find your uniform fits 
you just as much as the Supply Sergeant is 
truthful. It is no use arguing with him, 
either. If you try to get him admitting the 
general idea that clothes ought to fit, even 
if you call them a uniform, he gasses you 
into insensibility with talk about his "tables 
of fundamental allowances" and about 
someone having doped the "tariff" wrong. 
In fact he can counter attack so strongly that 
you feel lucky to get a re-issued hat-cord, 
when what you want is a winter overcoat. 

Keeping your uniform in one place, and 
the right place, is almost as much trouble as 
getting it, the rookie finds. When he thinks 
he presents an unbroken front, some sergeant 
he has never been introduced to or anything 
will come along and break it to him that his 
U. S. collar button is on the wrong side, that 
orders of the day call for shoes, marching, 
instead of the field dogs he is wearing, and 
'that match sticks for holding buttons in 
place don't go. 

[89] 



Vare the Visitors who never show up. 
Never, that is, unless you are on K. P., 
or old guard, or temporarily resident 
in the can. They like to drop in on you on 
the assumption that surely the guards 
wouldn't hold them up after their coming all 
that distance, and bringing that cake and 
everything. The pass that you got for them, 
signed by the top sergeant, and your com- 
pany commander, and the Adjutant, and a 
few others, and which you mailed special de- 
livery, didn't reach them in time, but they 
thought they would come anyway. Then 
the first you hear (after not hearing) is they 
are in camp, and a good Samaritan in 
another company has taken it on himself to 
let them know^ about your being on K. P., 
and brings you a message saying they will 
vv^ait for you at the Y. M. C. A., and for you 
to hurry up. Then you get other messages, in 
between dishing out the coffee and bringing 
in a ton or two of coal, saying they won't be 
able to make the train home if it is after 5 
o'clock when you are through; (later) that 
all is well, after all, and that you can take 
your time as they have arranged to stay some 
place over-night, and then — they show^ up 
in person and claim you, blue denims and 
all, and give the bunch something to josh you 
over for the rest of your enlistment. 
Visitors are a gruelling delight. 

[93] 



Wis Wash Day — a contingency faced 
with the same heroic resignation as 
going over the top, and for the same 
reason, both being inevitable necessities. 
You can spend a pleasant half hour polish- 
ing your shoes and scrubbing your best pair 
of leggins, this activity being the sign of an 
approaching pass. Something has to be 
conceded to the public — everyone realizes 
that. But washing an undershirt suggests 
putting on evening dress for dinner on a 
raft. Or, like buying a subway ticket and 
w^alking home. It seems uncalled for. 

Worse, if possible, than wash day is the 
only alternative — the camp laundry. (They 
don't have a laundry in some camps, w^hich 
is like not having the influenza, or not stub- 
bing your toe.) The official laundry treats 
you very officially. They are impartial, par- 
ticularly about shirts. A shirt may be vital 
to you, but to them it is simply a garment. 

'The times I sent you are but few 
Not more than four, it seems to me. 

But never once did you return O. K. 
My Launderie! My Launderiel" 

In other words, a camp laundry can't figure 
w^hy you kick, when they did return a shirt 
(somebody's shirt) in your package, par- 
ticularly when you admit that you got the 
right bed-sack and a fair percentage of 
right socks. 

[97] 



Xis for the Excuse you offer, proving 
conclusively (as you can see by the 
top sergeant's expression) that 
You didn't hear the gun; 
You are sure they blew reveille ten 

minutes ahead of time; 
You told Kiseilowski to tell him (the 
topper) about your having been 
working for that looey in the 23rd 
Company and that he (the 2nd Lute) 
said for you not to stand reveille and 
it would be O. K. ; 
You would sooner do five extra K. P.'s 
than four week's restriction, if it is 
all the same to the topper. 
Excuses are useful as a conversational 
ornament, even if they don't get you any- 
where. They come in handy to explain 
something you didn't do, and if you hand 
out a perfect alibi they figure there must be 
something fishy about it and stick you with 
some "charge of quarters." Then when you 
have done something, you don't mention 
the excuse, and the C. O. comes to the 
conclusion that you are not one of the alibi 
gang and that maybe you didn't do it and 
that he will overlook it anyway. In other 
words it is good to have an excuse with you, 
if you don't tell anyone about it. 



[101] 



Yis the Yanks, accredited representa- 
tives of Uncle Sam at the late lamented 
international rough-house. Anyone 
who has seen a considerable number together 
knows why they are Yanks, and nothing else, 
especially not "Sammies." At Chateau 
Thierry, where they warmed up before a 
rather anxious crowd, and at St. Mihiel, 
w^hen the machine got running smoothly, 
they proved to the w^orld what it means to 
rouse a bunch fed on beans and bacon. 

Specialty: Tciking towns and learning to 
pronounce 'em later. 



[105] 



Zis for Zero — the Kaiser's net gains. 
This picture carries its own moral and 
simply illustrates that it is all right to 
get a place in the sun, as long as you don't 
try to hog the whole stoop. Bill Hohen- 
zollern started well, but his control was poor. 
And he was no good atall at keeping 
luncheon engagements. In brief, he was a 
good deal of a pest, and nearly beat out Nero 
as history's prize bad actor. 

But he couldn't "stand the gaff"; the 
crowd wasn't with him, and so, finally, he 
has reached his own royal Zero Hour. 



09 



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